The Boy and the Darkness
by Lucy Morningstar
Summary: A boy spends the night talking to the darkness under his bed. Original oneshot.


_DISCLAIMER: I supremely own this story, and the little boy inside. Yay!_

**The Boy and the Darkness**

Once there was a little boy, who, finding it hard to sleep, would talk to the darkness under his bed to spend the long nights away.

The darkness that resided under his bed was a master storyteller. The boy enjoyed his stories immensely, and would cling on to his every word as he laid above under the covers, face towards the ceiling.

"You ever heard of the Dark Man, kid?" The darkness under his bed was telling him.

"Is he your friend?" the boy inquired.

"No, what makes you think so?"

"I've never heard of the Dark Man," said the boy. "Who is he?"

The darkness underneath him took a pause. Maybe it was taking a deep breath down there. Or maybe it was doing it on purpose, secretly enjoying the silence and the suspense it withheld. The boy waited patiently, until it spoke again.

"Well, the Dark Man is basically a person with a dark head perched on top of his human body," the darkness explained. "His mother was a Dark, but his father was pretty much an ordinary guy, just like yours."

"You mean he's got a black face?" the boy asked.

"No kid, not that _dark_," it said, somewhat irritatedly. "Dark. As in, quack quack."

When the boy spoke, his voice was shrill like a girl's.

"You mean he's got a _duck'_s head?"

"Yup. The single most perfect duckiest duck head you'd ever seen. He might as well decapitate a real drake and put the thing there between his shoulders."

"What's a drake?"

"A drake is a male duck."

The boy was silent for awhile, thinking how awful it must be. "Life must be hard for him," he said softly.

"Are you kidding me?" the darkness under his bed was asking. "His life was utter hell. He couldn't bear to step out in public and he had no friends."

"What about his parents?"

"They threw him inside a rubbish bin when he was barely two hours old."

"Why?" asked the boy, shrill again.

"Who would want a baby with the head of duck?" it said. "I know I wouldn't want one."

"Well, what happened to him? What is he doing now?"

"I don't know, it's not like I knew the guy personally. I just knew his story that's all, and that's about it. Sorry."

The room became silent again for some time, so silent time might have as well stopped, with no sign a conversation ever took place, or was taking place, for that matter. The darkness from underneath waited for the boy. Then soft little gasps were heard.

"You crying, kid?" it asked. "You feeling it for him."

"It's the saddest story I've ever he-heard," the boy answered between sobs. "I'm-ma little cr-crybaby, y-you see."

"Mm," the darkness went, like someone deep in thougnt. "Then I better don't tell you about his sister."

"He had a sister?" the boy squeaked.

"Yup. And she had the head of a-are you ready for this?-a tomato. As red and shiny and smooth and I bet, juicy, as can be."

He wiped his tears off his face with his pillow, then frowned and twisted his mouth.

"I don't like tomatoes," replied the boy. "At least she's okay."

"Okay?" the darkness repeated from down below, sounding flabbergasted. "What do you mean "okay"? Do you even know what a tomato is, kid?"

The boy shook his head in disagreement. "I still prefer the Duck-Head Man."

Another pause from the darkness, and then a sigh. "Alright. Whatever you say."

"Did he have a name? This Duck-Head Man?"

Sure. His name was Donald." Then the voice sniggered. "Nah, poor guy was nameless."

"Such a sad story," the boy then whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Oh yeah? And now you're going to think of him-him and his sorry, pitiful duck-head life to sleep. Close your eyes, kid."

"I can't sleep," the boy said, yawning widely.

"It's 4am in the morning. You should sleep. Tomorrow, if you're lucky, I'll tell you a story about an ass-kicking cowboy. But for now, goodnight and sweet dreams."

"Is the cowboy half-cow, half boy?" the boy suspiciously, albeit sleepily.

"No, he was just a normal whiskey-loving dude," it answered. "But way better than John Wayne."

The boy shifted in his bed, his eyelids drooping. Soon his senses lifted up his body, and feeling weightless as a feather, he was transported to the fuzzy and heady world of ducks and tomatoes and cowboys, of dustbins and babies.

When he opened his eyes, the blinding rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, and shone directly onto his face. He knew it was time to get up. Then, as he would every morning, the boy got down from the right side of his bed, squatted, and lifted the edges of the covers. He would tilt his head to look down under, and he was doubly sure it would be the same sight to greet him as always, and he was right.

The lower hem of the curtains at the other side of the wall quietly fluttered in the morning breeze, swishing and swaying gently; a most simple view, but ultimately filling him with a strange emptiness.

_~FIN~_


End file.
